A portly officer holds a megaphone. “Stop your extremist activity right now. This will be your only warning. If you do not disperse, we will use force.”
I reach for my phone to call Abzal and Sabit. It is the longest ten seconds in my life. As the phone rings, the policemen grab their rubber batons. A group of student protestors storm the steps, and the guards beat them back with ease.
I yell, “Guys, we urgently need your backup near the State Oil Company’s Headquarters. Police are using rubber batons. They might call the Hovlyk Asker and I’m sure they plan to shoot at us. Please call your men to fly out of Karajasyl immediately!” The first line of protesters does not have protection lines on purpose. Our loyal men in uniforms are behind to avoid more casualties.
“Will be in thirty minutes, no quicker. My men and US troops are ready to strike back using helicopters. We may need to drop armed airborne troops to guard you as well since tanks might not be effective,” sadly admits Abzal.
“Don’t worry, brothers—we have loyal policemen so far. We have physically more men than they ever will have. That’s why I think we will win,” reassures Sabit.
“Just be quick. I think this is about to go south.” My heart is heavy, and doubt begins to creep in as the guards start to push forward into the protestors. The sky becomes grey with clouds. It’s not raining, just getting darker at noon. The protestors’ howls who are detained and brutally beaten by the police with clubs pierce my heart. It was me and my idea that caused this to happen! If everything falls apart, then it would be my fault. What would I say to the mothers of the young sons and daughters who were abused, beaten, or—God forbid—killed in the streets?!
The former policemen who escort the protesters rush to the beating guards with their screams, “You slaves of the system, wake up! Did you lose your dignity to resort to beating our sisters and brothers?” They rush to the guards with rubber batons, handguns, and banners, but many guards slam the protesting policemen’s chests with clubs and spray pepper spray to their faces. Blood of young Dalab men and women flows like a river on Volkan Babayev Avenue. Guards securing the State Oil Company’s headquarters have incredibly silent faces while doing their job.
Still, Yan doesn’t lose his optimism and declares, “Do not retreat! We have nothing to lose! Forward! Not a step backward!”
The Alysh warriors dressed in shirts and jeans run at the guards to attack them with fists and knives. They scream, “This is for our sisters and daughters, for Munai martyrs, and for the detained!”
Several Alysh demonstrators can disarm a group of guards, stealing the clubs. Ten guards have beaten twenty demonstrators, five of which already lost their consciousness. Our Alysh squads caught two of these guards. As I walk along with protesters, I watch Alyshs tie both guards to posts and pound them with their clubs, their fists, and their belts. At least justice is starting to get done. After all, for all these years, we are the ones who got tied up. Now, they are paying for their past crimes and brutality against protesters, against people like us. As I see these signs of power reversal, maybe now is the time I could legitimately become the third President of Dalabistan? And the first one to be recognized and respected by the people. Could I reverse the dynamics? Maybe this is the time to seize this opportunity.
While these Alyshs were busy beating the guards until the guards’ faces were nothing but a mix of blood and bones, the policeman surrounding the area next to the State Oil Company’s headquarters barked into his radio, “Send the Hovlyk Asker, the military, and the police. We lost two men to these extremists. We can’t face thousands of protesters alone.”
Amid all of the chaos and beatings of women and the guards, I heard a reply screeching from a walkie-talkie made by a Anar’s voice, “In ten minutes, we will send more police. Between thirty minutes and an hour, we will have soldiers, police, and the Hovlyk Asker here. Shoot them all if you can. Find the organizers. If either Yan Armanov or Aibek Ospanov is there, try and take them alive, I want to ensure their torture is slow. Do not spare any of the rest.”
Ah, it’s Anar again. We are in big danger, and I can only hope that the General and his armed forces get here before the Hovlyk Asker do. The smell of death and blood increases in the air.
In these desperate times, I shout, “Time to storm the Presidential Headquarters, Parliament, and the Dalab Eli square! We have ten minutes before our time will be up! They will kill us all if we don’t hurry!”
This angered the numerous men and women who rushed into the attack, proudly waving their flags and banners, and chanting “You can kill us, but you can’t kill Dalabistan or our honor!” When these military troops that Abzal and Sabit promised would finally arrive? It’s a long kilometer rush from here to the Dalab Eli square. Alyshs, Mongyts, Burkuts, Kaskyrs, and Maktyrs are the first ones to charge an attack. With their shouts of “Wake up, Dalab!” and “Go away, Babayev!” they run to the square, applause, and put on their music on their speakers. This song sounds like our national anthem, but unlike the anthem, it doesn’t praise Volkan Babayev and his family. The lyrics they sing include:
We’re oppressed for many years
Yet we don’t gave up our pride
The seeds have been sown
Dalabs, our time has come!
Once they finish singing, they repeat the same slogans of “You can’t run away from justice, parasites” and “The power belongs to the people, not to the corrupt!”
I march along with the other protesters. It’s almost claustrophobic as the frenzied crowd pushes in from all sides. They may turn Dalabistan and the capital into a mess or into a prosperous place. Maybe the next few hours would be like the bloody French Revolution or the Euromaidan Revolution. As we near the capital, the enormous golden statues of Volkan Babayev and Anar Babayev—the Father and Son, the “Great Khan and Dear Khan” of Dalabistan come into view.
Suddenly, I see other people who joined the march from surrounding areas. From afar, I see Elena’s younger sister Zuhra, with her pigtails and a white blouse. She was one of the tens of the students and youth girls holding a giant banner with red letters saying, “Anar, don’t steal our future—resign and give your way to others!”
The weather gets worse as dark clouds surround the sky. The winds blow harder, the banners of protesters are waving like battle flags. The first of the Burkuts are rushing to the square. One by one, row by row, the other groups reach the Dalab Eli square, standing in front of the Presidential Headquarters.
We’ve made it this far, but what comes next will forge the fate of the country.
Chapter 10: Posters and Gunpowder
“Duck! Cover”
“Don’t go further! Lie down, or you will die!”
“Leave me alone, we have nothing to lose!”
“Commander-in-Chief, our Hovlyk Asker made it to the square. When to fire?”
“Wake up, Dalab!”
“Freedom!”
“We, the Hovlyk Asker troops made it to the square, Commander-in-Chief, should I shoot at these rioters right now?”
The cacophony of these sounds surrounded me. They choke me, making it hard to breathe and focus. Maybe we all decided to commit suicide here?
“Order received, Anar Babayev!” A commander of the Hovlyk Asker division, shouts to his radio.
That’s when they open fire.
“Lay down, lay down. Don’t go, or you would get killed,” screams Yan, while ducking under the marble statue of a winged horse at the square.
I can’t breathe. The rain of bullets emitted by thousands of geared soldiers roars through the sky. Many protesters rush, only to fall and to be draped with their flags and posters. The gasps and the pain of the wounded and dying men and women are silenced by rifles’ fire.
Screaming people, dead people, wounded people, shooting people; they are everywhere. I look around to find a quick shelter amid all of this bloodshed. I’m torn between the Metro station and the marble statue of an
eagle. My feet are trembling, almost exhausting their resources. With no time remaining, I sprint to the eagle statue and collapse under the wing that surrounds me. Gunshots seem to come from everywhere. So far, there are no soldiers near this statue.
I get my phone once again, “When will your troops arrive at the Dalab Eli square, General Abzal? The Hovlyk Asker already opened fire at us!”
“Soon!”
“I hope we all won’t be dead by then!”
Zholan and his team of Mongyt medics rush to help the wounded. In front of me, he shouts to many of the injured, “Cover your head! Do not move! We are coming to help you!”
As he is running, a tall person in the Hovlyk Asker uniform points at Zholan’s team, “Target the medics!”
Instantly, he and three other monstrous soldiers point their machine guns and open fire.
Zholan shouts, “I’m comi—” but his body is peppered with bullets. He falls down on the concrete floor of the Dalab Eli square, his final words coming out as a bloody gurgle. This time I did not see a murder of a political activist or a protester. I saw the brutal slaughter of my close friend, my classmate, my soccer teammate. I knew my decision to launch a rebellion would need a sacrifice, but I did not expect it to result in catastrophic carnage.
It’s my fault for letting this happen! Zholan and countless others are dying because of me! In front of my eyes, I see a younger Zholan in a soccer shirt, appearing to stand up for me in front of the bullies during one of the practices. I hear Kambar and Erzhan laughing at one of the pranks they did at me. Zholan responds, “Guys, don’t be fuckers to him. We may be friends now, but if you touch him again on this pitch, I’ll fucking kill you. He’s my friend as well.” The bullies finally leave me alone. I want to hug Zholan and thank him for his bravery, but I look down and see Zholan’s body torn apart by the bullets. He is alive only in my memories at this point.
This is the end of me as a potential political activist, and the death of Alisher Karabars would soon follow—either physical or figurative. The fighting continues. The entire floor of the square is full of blood. There are mountains of corpses formed by the Hovlyk Asker troops and police. One Hovlyk Asker soldier fires randomly at fallen protestors, ensuring they are dead. Then they throw it on top of the pile like garbage. They beat the wounded with rubber clubs and stab them with their knives. Many young women are caught by the police and dragged naked into gray prisoner transport vehicles. Their bodies are full of purple and red bruises from all of the beatings. Death is in the air, and the strong smell of blood fills the atmosphere. If I didn’t decide to defend my stupid business here, maybe these comrades would not be killed today by their own soldiers and police! Perhaps I will be remembered here as a traitor to Dalabistan?
Many comrades come to the statue to hide from bullets with me. An older woman sobs nearby, “You were my son, Azamat… What sins have we committed to have our own army kill us all? What have we done to make this our destiny!”
Nearby, a man dressed in a yellow T-shirt whispers to me, “I knew that Anar Babayev was a monster, but I didn’t know that he has the guts to calmly kill thousands of people at the same time.” The pro-Babayev policemen apparently have run out of all of the bullets. Perhaps we can buy back some time before they are resupplied. Maybe we can occupy their attention so that our General can get here with his soldiers.
I come out from behind the marble bird statue and rush to the center of the square. The soldiers grab their plastic shields with black stencil letters “HOVLYK ASKER.” I watch Yan Armanov marching with his group of the dissidents, and he demands, “We will not stop until Anar Babayev will either resign or stop the oppression! You can kill us, but not our dignity or liberty.”
The Hovlyk Asker descends upon Yan and his protestors. It’s hard to see what is happening, but soon a group of the soldiers drag a kicking and fighting Yan out from the mob. A Hovlyk Asker captain in khaki pants and a green beret raises his club and rushes at Yan. Two other soldiers grab Yan’s arms and legs. Yan wails, “It’s a disgrace, terrible disgrace for you to kill an innocent man like a dog!”
“Shut up, you extremist bastard,” interrupts the Hovlyk Asker captain and slaps Yan’s face with an iron club. Yan spits the blood and two teeth on the floor. He gasps for breath. I want to step in, but I don’t want another high-ranked corpse to destroy the entire operation.
Yan’s supporters cry in anger, “You are the true extremists! Nothing more than slaves and Karakoldars of Anar!”
The captain beats Yan until he collapses on his knees, blood dripping from his entire body. The Hovlyk Asker captain draws his dagger from its decorated scabbard and tells, “Burn in hell, traitor!” He motions to the other soldiers, and they raise Yan to his feet. The captain grab’s Yan’s neck.
Yan gasps, “The people… will not forget… what you’ve done…”
The captain brings the blade up to Yan’s neck and slowly cuts a line. Some brave men and women grab flags, sticks, and pebbles and rush to defend Yan Armanov. They cry, striving to raise their arms up, “Kill him, and you will kill Dalabistan and your ass!” They are immediately martyred by covering the Hovlyk Asker troops as they open fire with their assault rifles. A ring of corpses surrounds the captain and Yan.
“A ring of hell portal for the greatest sinner, Yan,” the armed Hovlyk Asker soldiers laugh.
The captain inserts his dagger deeper in Yan’s neck. Yan howls due to increased pain. Few tears mixed with dripping blood roll on his cheeks, nearly covering his face. His cries of pain turn into choked, wet sobs. Then he makes a final wheezing gasp. Finally, Yan’s head falls off his shoulders and rolls a few meters to the feet of another policeman. That policeman picks up Yan’s head and laughs. He shows it to the crowd and spits at them before hurling the head into the mob like a ball, “Hey bros, want to play soccer with an extremist’s head until we get more bullets?”
“Sounds fun. It’s not every day you get to play soccer with homies with a traitor’s head instead of a cheap leather ball,” replied another servant of the regime. I do not have any weapons to defend myself or others, and my elbows turn inwards from helplessness. My heart sinks, just like when my mom was killed. I was unable to save my mom, but I had enough power to save Yan. How did I allow his death to happen? My plan is clearly not working, maybe we need more violence to respond to violence.
The servants of the regime drop their weapons and stage an impromptu soccer match. Yan’s head is fully covered with blood, with more purple bruises and dirt on his cheeks from the soldiers’ kicks on this improvised ball. I look to the right and spot some spare iron clubs. The two soldiers are about to finish their attack to score a goal—perfect moment to carry out my revenge. As the soldiers are relaxed and go back to their side, I run at them and hit each of them at the head with my iron club. They collapse from this sudden attack, covering their eyes. I shout to the triggered crowd, “Join me to avenge Yan the martyr!” The people scream from their throats and surround the Hovlyk Asker troops. Buying time before the Hovlyk Asker can do anything.
In the meantime, the sound of a helicopter fills the air, mixing with the roar of the crowd. Abzal’s voice crackles to life over the radio. “We’re here on the Dalab Eli square. Give me the status update.”
I grab a nearby radio, stained with blood, and respond, “They beheaded Yan!”
“May he rest in peace. It’s time to start the military phase of the operation.”
“Quickly! We’re sitting ducks out here! The peaceful phase of the protests has been unsuccessful. I have hit some of these bastards with their iron club, but we can’t last that way forever!”
“Starting our assault! Commanders, begin the assault!”
The first bullets are fired from the helicopter and cuts the Hovlyk Asker troops that killed Yan to shreds. These very policemen bragging about playing soccer with a dead head now start to fall down after getting rounds shot by Abzal’s helicopter. This inspires another po
werful attack from the retreated sullen crowd. They finally came! They heard our cry for help! Now it’s time to bring justice to these murderers of innocent men and women. Another squad of a thousand protesters runs to the remaining policemen squads and clash. It’s less than a minute before the protestors overwhelm them by sheer numbers and ferocity. The caps of policemen are tossed in the air by the crowd. The police are almost defeated, but not the Hovlyk Asker. Some policemen desert. Others join the protesters by taking off their uniforms and marching among the Commoners with their guns and civilian clothing.
The steady thrum of C-130 aircraft cuts through the sky. Three of the cargo planes fly above the square, and a steady stream of troops parachute out the back of each. They hit the ground and ditch their parachutes and jump into the fray.
Deserted members of the Dalabistan’s KGB commando units and the Armed Forces, American and British mercenaries, along with Dalabistani people, unite in one regiment. The Hovlyk Asker soldiers are the only force remaining at the loyal defense of Anar Babayev. I wonder how desperate he feels watching this sight while on a villa in Monte Carlo or somewhere at the Presidential Headquarters.
One tall, dark-skinned Hovlyk Asker man in a blue beret shouts, “For Motherland! For Babayevs!” as he gets into a big khaki-colored armored vehicle. Soon, hundreds of more armored vehicles form a line and tens of tanks with Babayevs’ profile images on the tanks’ towers.
When manpower is exhausted, it’s time to use technology. We still have a lot of men—like a few thousand remaining. No Yan. No Zholan. No other martyred men and women. The tanks are driving towards us. Maybe they are using this strategy to massively crush down the remaining protesters because exploiting only armed men proved ineffective? Maybe they are doing this to deter us from further fighting?
It’s getting closer to 3 p.m. The weather starts to get worse. The clouds are darker, the wind increases its strength. Soon rain starts to drop. Tanks start driving at us. Burkut tribesmen run, with shouts and battle cries, ready to lay their bodies for the revolution. The remaining soldiers and policemen on foot are caught by rebels, and our insurgency forces lead them to their temporary prison. No threats on foot anymore, finally. But there is even a more significant threat.
The Outcast Presidents Page 9
